Men: you’re not truly married until, with your pants around your ankles, you yell a request across the house for more toilet paper.
I have no sons, only daughters. If the four women I live with (varying in age from two up to… my wife) represent any kind of accurate sampling of the entire gender’s habits then women are disgusting and evil.
At the risk of using even more generalizations – no man would ever leave a single square of toilet paper. Never! At a bare minimum we leave a replacement roll precariously perched on the back of the toilet. Women will run that roll down to nothing but a few tattered shards sadly clinging to the glue strips on an otherwise empty paper dowel.
To compound the severity of this crime – and correct me if I’m wrong – every visit to the ladies room requires the use of this rolled 2-ply tissue. With guys it’s kind of a 50/50 deal. There’s a pretty good chance a visit to the men’s room will not necessitate the use of toilet paper. The same is not true for women.
What this means is that women are knowingly screwing over 100% of future visitors to the ladies’ lavatory.
That is evil.
Ladies! Have the common decency to, at the very least, look out for your own kind!
Sure, in a public restroom, a guy might shut the lights off – knowing full well that he’s leaving another man to grope around in the dark. Rest assured ladies, it’s never done with a malicious spirit. Men equate this act of hazing with blindfolding a cadet and asking him to successfully field strip an M1 Garand Rifle. A well-trained man can do it. Besides, it’s not like we’re leaving the poor sod without the proper tools to complete the task at hand – we’re just upping his game. Taking him to the next level. Sometimes we men refer to this as Call of Duty: Black Ops number 2.
Okay, only I call it that (but other guys might start now).
A second item worth noting is that, in our house, we have two bathrooms. One upstairs, the other downstairs. Since we purchased our house brand new I was able to design and finish off the bathroom myself – and I chose a brilliant design. Sensible, functional, and efficient. The shower is too small to accommodate the shaving of legs and the lighting does not lend itself for the application of makeup. Furthermore, there is not adequate counter space to hold said cosmetic products. In other words the women stay away from it and that is fine by me.
This last week I came home to find the ladies’ bathroom door shut with no one home. All at once, I became that idiot in the horror films who hears a noise behind a closed door… and opens it anyway.
I found what can only be described as either a horrific crime scene or the discovery of an ancient civilization. Either there was an attack, a struggle, and Cover Girl was subsequently dragged off site for a gruesome back alley disposal or the women of the house were unexpectedly called away while using tiny brushes (and other unidentifiable archeological tools) to unearth the Lost City of V Vivaudou.
Every surface was covered with bottles of wildly diverse shapes and sizes and an equally bizarre assortment of plastic containers. Upon no surface could I rest my eyes without locating a motley of miscellaneous equipment. Brushes of varying sizes. A colorful assortment of polyhedral sponges. Some sort of tackle-box full of warpaint. An arrow that points true north. Something that can only be described as brown. Possible sifting screens and a spoon excavator.
Towels were draped from everything (except the towel bars). The rug was thrown askew and the mirror had freakish streaks of unknown origin. I eased the door open further and the subsequent breeze made a large ball of snarled hair roll across the floor not unlike a tumble weed.
I was alone and I was afraid.
Slowly I backed away and reminded myself: I have my very own bathroom (insert smug smiley face emoticon). Sometimes in life it’s the little things; and having a bathroom all to myself is a special and cherished thing.